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Hope you had a great weekend. 

Following is Part 7 of “rolling thunder.”

In case it hasn’t crossed your mind, this story was written by someone for their therapy and for your enjoyment, but not likely for their enrichment and certainly not for yours.  If you’re scheming about how to make a buck off this story, be advised that our expansive lawyers demand a hundred and two cents out of every dollar of revenue, plus expenses.  That’s the deal they made with us when we copyrighted the story.  Therefore, you’re probably better off just reading and leaving quietly without clicking “edit/copy,” which starts their hourly rates running.  We hope you enjoy part 7 – and if you do, please leave a couple of nice Comments so we know you’re out there. 

ROLLING THUNDER (cont’d)

Chapter 13

At six twenty five Eve was awakened by the knock at the door.  She opened her eyes and looked at her watch.  Thank god he’s not German, she thought, or she would have gotten twenty five minutes less sleep.  Vive l’difference.

She found rising from the couch had gotten harder now that her body was fully aware of all the damage done to it.  That, and the blessed effects of the codeine were dissipating.  She saw the little bottle of pain pills Gabelli had provided her after they’d gotten back from the hospital and wished for one or two, but she’d gone to great lengths to engineer an opportunity for some quality time with The Doc, and the last thing she needed was to be unable to think, or worse yet, unable to remember tomorrow what was going to happen tonight.  She pulled an aspirin bottle from her purse, got frustrated with the childproof cap that seemed pretty effective also against people with a bum arm, swore to herself then went to get the door.  As she passed a mirror on the wall she caught her profile and desperately wanted to do something with her hair, which had cemented itself into a proper rat’s nest as she dozed, but there was no time for such frivolity.  She was supposed to look bad anyway, right?

“Bon journo!” Gabelli boomed when she’d opened the door.  “The patient looks quite well.  Were you able to sleep then?”

“Thankfully yes, but I’m pretty sore now that I’ve woken up.”

“Did you take something for it?”

“Yes, it will just take some time to kick in.”

“Ah, you have gone to the trouble to set a lovely table – you really should have been resting.  That is not necessary.”

“You were just so kind to me, I wanted to make it up to you as best as I can.  I just wish I could have cooked something.”

“Nonsense.  Finding good pasta in this town is like finding taxis in New York City,” said Gabelli.

“I was pouring some wine when you arrived.  I hope you’ll join me.”

“I can think of nothing better,” he said, picking up the glass closest to him as she did the same.  She took a drink and watched him while he did the same.  She worried he’d find it spoiled by the additive.  He didn’t seem to wince, so either it was okay or he was being incredibly polite.  As she pondered these thoughts, he took another drink and finished the glass.  She was certain he found it not to his liking, and downed it so as not to suffer with it any longer.

Gabelli took the food boxes out of the bag he’d brought them in, and found his way around the kitchen drawers until he’d located some utensils.  They made small talk as he dished portions out for each of them.  There was a veal manicotti, fresh steamed vegetables that smelled wonderful to her, and a still steaming garden soup.  He went out of his way to show her the other box containing two generous servings of Tiramisu for desert.  Dating a doctor wasn’t at all unpleasant.  Or maybe it was dating an Italian.  No matter.

They ate and continued with the small talk, Eve asking questions about his being a doctor and what made him become a team physician, what he thought about the travel that entailed, and what he thought about the riders.

“Most of them are fine young men, like your Shamus.  It’s a pleasure to spend my time with them, and even more so when they have a great day on the bike and win a race.”

“What about all the accidents?” She asked.

“Truly, there are not so many bad ones.  I treat a lot of scrapes and cuts, plus viruses and tummy aches.  It’s like being a pediatrician, except these kids can handle so much pain.  That’s what I marvel at.  They break a rib, get back on and ride a hundred miles.  Same when they break a wrist or even the collarbone.  And I can give them only Tylenol during the race, so they ride with great courage.”

Eve heard the Doc slur his words, and it did appear he was becoming tipsy.  She refilled his glass, and he dutifully took a drink.  This time, his face didn’t blanch when he tasted the wine.  Apparently it went down better without the medicine.  Eve sipped her glass, swallowing very little wine to keep her wits about her.

“So can I ask you a more difficult question?” Eve ventured forth.

“Of course, what would you like to know?”  He asked.  Eve noted that his eyelids appeared droopy and his shoulders seemed to sag more than they did when he’d arrived.

“With all that is reported about cyclists doping to increase their performance, I am worried about building a relationship with someone who could be poisoning their body.  Maybe Shamus must use these drugs to be the team leader, I do not know.  It is already scary that they ride so fast and make such dangerous crashes that each team needs its own doctor at the race.”

“So you want to know if the riders are using drugs?” Gabelli clarified, his chin now almost resting upon his chest.

“Yes,” Eve said, and as she did so, she moved her right hand beneath the table to the space between her legs where her cell phone rested on the chair.  She pressed the number three and held it for two seconds.

“I am afraid it is a very complex situation, actually, and quite a long and involved one.”

“Please, Angelo, it is so hard to decide whether to be involved when I don’t know whether he must do such things. Nobody would know better than you, I am sure, what it takes to compete in this sport, Eve said, increasing the familiarity she was willing to express to him and plying on his ego, and hoping he’d notice.”

“Yes, that is safe to say,” he finally responded, barely able to hold his head upright for the chemicals and alcohol now coursing through his system.

She reached for the wine bottle and topped his glass off. 

“So, I suppose I could tell you some of the interesting things I know about this sport, but it has to be a secret between us, eh?” he began.  “Even Shamus should not hear these things, because we need his mind clear for racing, you understand?”

“Of course,” she affirmed, and prayed silently that Steineger had answered his phone and was able to hear the conversation on his end.

“To begin with, it’s common knowledge that drugs have been in sports since ancient Greece and the Olympiad.  They constantly experimented with potions to improve performance. 

“In the past century, all that has happened, is technology has leapfrogged and now we can make much more powerful drugs for fighting cancer, eradicating diseases like Polio, and improving the body’s ability to work more effectively.  The problem is that when we invent a new medicine for treating Asthma, for example, then it takes someone only an instant to ask whether this same medicine could help an athlete breathe more effectively. And when we invent drugs to make cows and pigs larger and leaner, to improve the amount of high quality meat we get from an animal, someone asks, would this work the same way on an athlete.  Sometimes, the answer is yes.”

“So what do the drug companies think about this?  They say, ‘it is not approved for this use,’ like their lawyers tell them to.  But then they come to me and say, Doctor Gabelli, you should see how promising our newest medicine is for making the athlete stronger and leaner!  I say, how do you know this will work, or what the side-effects will be, and they say these are questions they would like more information about, and would I mind helping them with this analysis?”

“I know what they mean by this!” Gabelli said, his emotions rising against the headwind of a cocktail of depressants flowing through his veins.  “They want to measure it on my boys and see what happens.  These are the perfect specimens: young, healthy, living in a very controlled environment, they will eat whatever they are told to, and they don’t question when someone shows up to ask for a blood or urine sample.”

“Of course, I can say no, but then the advantages of this new medicine will go to another team – somebody will always say ‘yes’ if you ask enough teams.  On the other hand, so if I say I will do this, then maybe my rider gets sick, or gets trouble with Doping Controls because of this medicine, Gabelli paused, seemingly winded.  And they have the money to offer to the doctors and the labs that help them with these experiments.”

Eve wanted, of course, to ask him the blunt question of whether he did say yes from time to time, but that would be too hasty.  Tact was called for; Gabelli was no idiot. 

“The racers get tested by the Doping Controls so often it seems.  So how do these things not get found out?”

Gabelli laughed, seemingly at her gullibility.  “Eve, I don’t mean to laugh at the question you ask, and certainly not at you.  It’s just that the system has so many holes in it that you would not believe.”

“But there are very important labs that do these tests, non?”

“Sure,” he said resignedly.  “But.”

“But what – please Angelo, I would like to understand, but this doesn’t make sense to me.”

“Alright, young lady, I will tell you just a little more that I know, but I don’t want to get either one of us in trouble, you have to understand.”

“Completely.”

“Okay, so first, for any medicine there is the possibility of using yet more drugs to hide the effects from the lab, or to make the body flush the chemicals out quickly.  But that is risky also, because sometimes the lab can determine whether such masking drugs were in the body.  But there are other ways around this, since the labs are not immune from certain influence – either political or more often financial.  They are businesses after all, no?  And where do they get information about new medicines – from the pharmaceutical companies, of course.  Those are very big companies who find no difficulty to spend large amounts of money to entertain the lab personnel and build important relationships.  Keep in mind also, that the pharmaceutical companies determine which information they will provide or not, so they are always a step or two ahead of WADA anyway, eh?  And if that is not enough, then there is the practical solution of only testing these new medicines on athletes that do not have so much value to the team.  That way, if the lab is not fooled, the rider is banned from the sport and the damage is not so big, eh?  And then there is the political aspect.”

“Which is?”

“The French labs contracted by WADA are staffed with many patriotic French men and women, of course, so one might imagine that a positive result by a French athlete may get more careful review before it is said that a violation has occurred.  So the French athlete would be the best Guinea Pig, eh?”

“I see, but how could one get an athlete to take such medicines?  I cannot think that these are forced on them?” Eve asked.

Gabelli smiled slightly at the thought.  “It is about as difficult as getting a starving man to take food.”

“So they want the medicines?” she asked, using the deferential word Gabelli had chosen and stuck to rather than, say, ‘illegal drugs,’ which she thought wouldn’t be conducive to their conversation.

“They are all very fragile inside, and frightened they will lose their jobs if they do not perform.  When someone in authority tells them there is a magic potion that will make them stronger and faster, one must not stand between them and the medicine or get trampled!  Then you can see as soon as they start using the medicine, even before it can help their body, their mind becomes more confident and they ride better.  It is the placebo effect, no?”

“This is quite complex, as you say, Eve said, offering him a smile.  She knew that nothing he had said could result in implicating him or anyone in a legal case.  He would just say that he’d been speculating, or repeating things he’d heard from others.  It wasn’t as if he’d confession to being involved in any way, and she doubted he ever would.” 

“Do you think the pharmaceutical companies organize all this, then?”

“Yes and no, I would say.  Yes, they are very clever and have many representatives and managers thinking all the time about ways to sell more of their products.  You will find them meeting with team staff and the medical personnel, offering sponsorships for races and teams if one can believe it, and making relationships with former athletes who the young guys look up to.  Money changes hands, and athletes get the product.  Ironically, much has been said about doping in cycling, but I say this is not even a drop in the bucket.”

“Because?”

“Because it is a small sport, in terms of the number of athletes competing at a level where one might feel compelled to take dangerous shortcuts to improve their results.  You cannot compare this little sport to baseball, where semi-pro, college, and professional teams play throughout the U.S. and Latin America and many of these athletes intend to become top professional players.  Bigger yet, is football.  European style yes, and American also.  The athletes become bigger and faster every year much faster than the overall population is growing.  Is there any question what causes this?  So cycling is more or less irrelevant to this situation.  Cancel this sport tomorrow, and few people involved in this doping business will take any notice.  You want to know what the next frontier is for these people?”

“What?”

“Children.”

“You’ve got to be making a bad joke here, Angelo.  Why would children be involved?”

“They are the future athletes, eh?  These days, kids are competing at a serious level by the time they are ten years old.  Look at the young girls who do the gymnastics in the Olympics – all of them thirteen to sixteen years old.  Look at the high school sports stars, lifting weights and taking supplements to make the best college team or maybe even go directly to the pros.  So you have a very large number of kids – and their parents - wanting to become competitive athletes and quite willing to do what is necessary, including spending large amounts of money and having in the diet some supplements to make them bigger, stronger, and faster.  For the pharmas, the goal is to get the children to learn the habit of taking these supplements very young, so they get the most money over the athlete’s lifetime.”

“That’s absolutely diabolical,” Eve said, meaning it, and truly stunned by the prospect.

“That’s business, dear lady.”

“Is there any reason I should think that this does not go on with our boys?”

“Maybe it is best to think this way, Eve.  How does one explain the improved performance an athlete - like Shamus, for example - is able to show in just a matter of weeks since the start of the season?”

“So you think he might be,” Eve mused, hoping to continue to conversation without pressing so hard as to make Doc suspicious.

“Dear lady, I know many athletes are involved, and no, I could not tell you that our team is free of this.  But my point is that it is not difficult for anybody to see what is going on, if they merely look.”  

“But if this is going on widely, would it make a difference?  I mean, if so many athletes take these drugs, does anybody actually get an advantage?”

“That,” Gabelli said, smiling broadly, “is the best question you have asked so far.  And the answer, is no, not for long.  You have a group who get the ‘advantage’ and a group that does not.  Between them, is a difference.  Among those with the ‘advantage’ though, there is little difference….except when something new and more effective comes out.  When one athlete uses say, caffeine, and another gets EPO, there is a difference between the amounts of advantage one gets versus the other.  So all of the parties involved in this business are constantly searching for the next break-though product, to get a temporary advantage before the practice becomes more common – and before WADA investigates the drug and develops new testing to identify it in the bodily fluids.”

 “What position does this put you in as a doctor for these athletes?”

“It is certainly a difficult position.  On the one hand, the athletes have free will to put in their bodies what they want, but on the other hand this may be in conflict with the rules of the sport and may harm their health.  My job is not to enforce the rules of the sport.  That is for WADA.  My job is to keep the riders healthy.  So if they are intending to put something in their body and I know that, then I must advise them what the risks are, and if they still want to, then how to do it as safely as possible.  I am not their mother and I cannot be their conscience.  I can, however, be as knowledgable as possible about how they train, the diets they are on, and whatever else they might put in their bodies, and try to help them minimize the risks.  In this light, the ethics are not so difficult to manage.”

“So if the pharmaceutical company came to you and said we have this medicine we think is good for the athletes, but it is not approved by the FDA, what would you say?”

“Most likely, I would say tell me about this medicine, how it was developed, what it is related to, what it contains, how much testing has been done, what kind of side effects it might have, what dosage they recommend, and other questions like this.”

“What if they asked you if you would provide it to the athletes or recommend it to them?” Eve asked.

“No question, I would say absolutely not.  I am not in the business of recommending unapproved drugs and I do not enjoy the thought of exchanging my apartment for a room in the prigione.”

“And what if they were to say, ‘some of your athletes are already using this, and we would like you to tell us what is happening to his body or his performance,’ and they would pay you for this information?”

“I see nothing wrong with this.  If my work helps improve their medicines, then I should get paid for it,” Gabelli said dismissively.

“So what about a team manager, wouldn’t they be very concerned athletes on their team using these dangerous drugs?”

“Of course.  A scandal that embarrasses the sponsor could take away the team’s funding, and his own job.  Therefore he must weigh the risks and ensure that no major scandal is likely.  It is good if he has the right relationships with the labs, members of the press, and a good reputation in the business community.  If so, then maybe someone does him a favor sometime, which they would not do for another team, you know?  It is also helpful to have the important political connections and of course some good attorney’s also, so that people are careful not to make allegations against you.  Then he must rely on the team staff to give him information about what is happening with the athletes, who they think may be doing something unwise, and when to remove a rider from the roster until his blood samples return to normal.”

Eve asked Doc if he would like to take coffee on the patio for some fresh air, and she brewed cups for each of them and they took these and the Tiramisu outside.  Eve didn’t want to find herself inside the apartment if Gabelli got the impression she was interested in more than conversation.  Moving it outside would make it easier to wish him goodnight once the treats were done.  As she prepared the coffee tray, she flipped her cell phone closed and dropped it into her purse.

While Gabelli had said nothing to put himself in jeopardy, Eve came away from the conversation confident that he was involved in all this, and maybe strayed farther across the lines of ethics and law than he’d represented, and it would be up to her, Shamus, and Steineger to find the proof.  Nonetheless, Gabelli might be implicated, or might not, but either way he didn’t appear to be a big fish in this pond – so there would be no particular urgency to focus on building a case against him personally.  More likely, he’d be scooped up when the investigation came together and offered a chance to trade his testimony for leniency; provided, that is, he had more to offer than the kind of chit-chat he’d provided tonight that Eve could have gotten more easily by Googling ‘cycling and doping’ and reading the endless list of articles that would be offered.

After the desert and coffee had been consumed, Eve told the doctor that she was feeling tired and wished to sleep.  Gabelli’s head seemed to be clearing and he responded as a perfect gentleman would and said goodnight with only an air kiss to both of her cheeks.  She thanked him again for his help after her fall, and for being such a gracious dinner companion this evening.

By the time Eve emerged the next morning she saw that his Volvo was gone, and it didn’t return during the day.  Clearly he’d overcome whatever hangover had been awaiting him and managed to depart for Paris. 

What she didn’t know, was that during the drive north Gabelli had phoned Trusseau and described in some detail the conversation he’d had the night before with Shamus’s girlfriend.  Gabelli apologized for having been so expansive, and blamed it on the wine, which Trusseau accepted.  Trusseau said he was uncomfortable why she would be asking about this, and asked Gabelli if anything was known about who she was.  Could she be an investigator, he had asked.  Gabelli said he didn’t know.  Trusseau made a cutting remark about the Italian’s ears being closed while his mouth was open, and that his brain had gotten hotwired by other parts of his body.  Gabelli did not respond to this, either.

Trusseau told Gabelli to keep his mouth shut and avoid the girl for now on, and also to be careful around Shamus.  He said that he would have someone look into this Eve Blancon, and find out if she was just a curious girl or maybe a real problem. Trusseau reminded Gabelli that doping was an issue, but there were others they also needed to be very careful about.

Trusseau hung up with Gabelli, then phoned a friend who was formerly a Captain with the French Gendarmes, and now did private investigations.
Chapter 14

Shamus woke early on Friday morning, took a shower and put a fresh shave on his face and legs.  It was an odd tradition of cyclists to shave their legs, since it was difficult to argue that aerodynamic drag or the weight of the added hair made much of a difference in their performances.  Some riders attributed it to the simple fact that people riding bikes fall and get scraped up on a frequent basis, and hairless legs eased the burden of bandage removal; others said it made their frequent leg massages more comfortable.  Shamus thought this was all rubbish, and in reality, half did it because the others did, and half did it for the same reason that professional wrestlers, weightlifters, swimmers, water polo players and, oh by the way, women did it – because it made them look better.  Cyclists legs were wonderfully lean and sported large, carved thighs and wide calves with a noticeable inverted-v etched deeply into the lower portion, signifying to all that one put in serious miles.  This kind of tattoo couldn’t be purchased, but must be earned.  Let the pegs get hairy, and you would hardly notice such accomplishments.  Shave, and the world would behold.  Shamus lathered up and gave up his a good shearing, then dressed and headed downstairs for breakfast.

After breakfast, the team was due for a four hour spin along sections of the race course.  They’d go a moderate pace today, keeping the legs fresh.

At breakfast, he saw Daniela for the first time in weeks.  Although things were going extraordinarily well between him and Eve, he couldn’t help feel some sense of regret it had all turned purely business-like with Daniela.  She fluttered around the room and throughout the hotel, chatting with riders, staff, hotel employees, or anyone else she needed to give assistance to, or get it from. 

Daniela didn’t waste time making a finding Shamus, either, and when she did she threw her arms around him and congratulated him on his win in the Tour of California.

“Shamus, that was an amazing race, you are riding so strongly these days!”

“It was a good outing for the team,” he said in a somewhat taciturn response.  “How have you been these past weeks?”

“Very busy, of course, but having a wonderful time as always.  Is there anything you need from me?” Daniela asked, and Shamus knew what was meant by it.

“Not at the moment.  I think I’m in good shape, thanks.”

“Very good.  So, there is one more thing I wanted to tell you, she said, and her face took on a serious look.”

“Sure, what’s that?”

“Well, I heard Trusseau on the phone earlier today.  I don’t know who he was speaking with, but I heard your name and that of your friend Eve.  I could not hear what Monsieur Trusseau said after that, but he did not seem happy.  I don’t mean to stick my nose into this, but thought you might want to know.”

“Thank you,” Shamus said, “I think maybe people are nervous because I’ve been asking certain questions.”

“What are you trying to find out, if I may ask?”

“I’m just trying to find out who may have tampered with my bike last year at the Tour.” 

Shamus knew this would be an unsettling issue to raise with anyone on the team, and raising it with Daniela might be as good as announcing it at a team meeting.  Everybody could be talking about it in no time.  Shamus worried about opening the can of worms, but as the weeks and months had passed it was becoming evident that the little oddities and curiosities he was witnessing would take a long time to amount to even a good tale, let alone a solid case against anybody.  He needed to bring the issue to front and center.  He needed people to know that he wanted to hear what they knew, or may have heard, pertaining to Gerard’s death.  It was not lost on him that doing so would invite danger, but he felt that dangerous people were already around and weren’t planning to go away.

“And Eve, is she helping you with this?”  Daniela asked, putting together what he’d just said with what she’d overheard from Trusseau’s agitated call.

“Eve is simply a college girl and she’s very frightened by all this.  She wishes I’d just let it go, and get on with my life.  Before she went back to the University, she was a Gendarme, but not really a police officer – more like an administrative person working with their computers and so on.  The point is that she’s at least been around enough to know that asking certain questions can be dangerous.  But Gerard was my good friend and I remember that ride and I don’t think what happened was just an innocent accident – I didn’t just fall of the bike that day.  Someone wanted to harm me, or him, or maybe both of us, and I want to find out who and why.”

Daniela listened and was concerned for Shamus and the Quixotic journey he’d set himself upon to find the truth.  She was also concerned for herself.

“It’s okay, Shamus.  I understand how this hurts you.  I will help you any way I can, but Eve is right, please be very careful with this.”

“Thank you, Daniela, I know you will.  I also know it’s not wise to get involved in all this, but I genuinely believe there’s something deeply wrong here and everybody’s trying hard to look the other way and go on with their lives and their jobs, and I don’t think that’s fair to Gerard.”

“Is there anything I can do to help you now?” She asked.

“You were here then; you could tell me what you know or what you heard about it.  Even if it’s just rumors, there had to plenty of discussion about it.  I wasn’t with the team after the accident, so I don’t know what was said.  I’d like it a lot if you’d tell me about it.”

Daniela paused, nervously chewing at her lower lip as she contemplated how to respond.  She would have rather he’d asked for her to buy him a bag of drugs or find him a cache of guns, then be asked to sort through the quagmire of suspicion, paranoia, and finger-pointing that went on back then.

“Not here, and not around these people.  We cannot be seen together in private discussions or bad things could happen to both of us, she said, glancing around.  Meet me tonight at nine thirty in the Cinema Dubois on Rue Chantalle.  I will wait in the foyer.”

That evening, Shamus took a cab to the Cinema Dubois, arriving at quarter past nine.  He bought a box of popcorn and found a quiet spot where he could loiter.  A half hour later, she still hadn’t come.  He checked his phone repeatedly.  No calls, no messages.  At ten past ten, almost an hour after he’d first arrived, he went outside to hail a cab.  He had to walk several blocks before he got to a large enough boulevard to actually find one. 

After they’d spoken earlier, Daniela had returned to her own room and cried for hours.  She cried because this whole episode was raising itself again, and she’d held a glimmer of hope that it was finally in the past.  She cried harder because she was head-over-heels for Shamus, but her business affairs and his meant that they must remain separate; being together could not work as long as each continued to do what they did.  Finally, she sobbed for the fact that she had known that her affairs had played into Shamus’s accident and Gerard’s death; how much so, she did not know, but she suspected it was far more of a direct relationship than she would ever want to understand.  And now Shamus was committed to putting together the pieces, and she was certain he would succeed.

When she finally was able to stifle her crying, she decided she was forced to do something.  Either she could live every moment of coming days and weeks fearing for what would be found out, and awaiting someone to finally ask her to please come tell her story, or she could take the necessary actions to avoid such anxiety.  Both options came with large price tags.  She decided living in purgatory would be the costlier of the two.  She took out a pad of paper from the desk, and sat down to write.  For hours, she wrote everything she knew that might have a bearing on Shamus’s questions.  She didn’t stop to read or edit what she wrote, but let the words fly from her hand onto the page, then flipped it over and continued, one page after another.

She finally took the note of many pages, written in her elegant cursive, folded it in half and put it in a manila envelope, sealed and taped it shut.  She wrote Shamus’s name on it, then left her room with it stuffed inside a folded towel, of which she carried several.  When she got to Shamus’s room, she used her plastic key to open it.  It was standard procedure that the team sougnieurs were give access to the riders’ rooms to ensure they could receive their fresh clothes, linens, bottles, race instructions, or notes from the boss even while they were out on the bikes.  Daniela found Shamus’s large duffle bag that he virtually lived out of, unzipped a side pocket on it, and stuffed the envelope inside.  She doubted he’d come across it immediately, but he would eventually.  

When Shamus finally got back to his hotel, he asked at the front desk if there were any messages for him.  There were none.  He rang Daniela’s room to check on her, but there was no answer.  He felt concern, but not alarm.  It was quite likely she’d gotten nervous about the meeting and decided against seeing him.  Or perhaps she’d been called away for some task that simply wouldn’t wait.

The next morning Daniela was not at the team breakfast, nor did he see her around the hotel.  Again, there wasn’t reason to be overly alarmed, but he certainly wasn’t becoming any more comfortable, either.  He reminded himself that sougnieurs were chronically busy around race events, getting panicky calls at the spur of the moment, and then rushing off to solve myriad problems.  Nevertheless, he wished just to lay eyes on her and know that last night was nothing more than a blown date.  His sense of worry rose sharply when she failed to return calls to her cell phone.  Friday night passed and Saturday rolled around and still Daniela was not to be seen or heard from. 

On Sunday morning, the Paris-Nice Race to the Sun was set to get underway.  When Shamus awoke and looked out his window to see what the day would bring, he saw gray clouds moving swiftly overhead, becoming darker rather than lighter as they went by.  He felt the cold glass of the window and knew it was frigid outside, with a scathing wind that would make the day’s work demonstrably harder.  He opened his Mac laptop and queried the weather to get specifics about what his bones already knew well enough.  Paris was at thirty degrees F, looking for a high in the afternoon of thirty-five.  He turned stoically from the window and began unpacking clothes from his duffle.  He’d have to dress heavily to keep warm, but in layers so that adjustments could be made as his body temperature changed out on the course. 

Paris-Nice formally kicked off the European cycling season, and although it was theoretically ‘to the sun,’ riders often trudged through snow or sleet over significant portions of the course.  Early March in the central latitudes of Europe wasn’t a warm time of year, at all. 

Aside from the weather, the race was a favorite proving ground for future Tour de France winners; twice in the past three years the Paris-Nice winner went on to win the Grand Boucle, as it was also known.  Its other point of notoriety was during the 2003 running when Kazakh rider Andrei Kivilev died as a result of a head injury he sustained in a fall from the bike.  The sport’s authorities moved thereafter to mandate that riders must wear helmets, undoubtedly saving numerous lives because of it.

Shamus and his team rode a strong but defensive race.  The goal they shared with other top teams wasn’t primarily to win, but rather to use the event as training and fitness for the upcoming Tour.  In his day, Lance Armstrong was known to participate in the Paris-Nice race but didn’t hesitate to drop out if the conditions were too severe.  Shamus wanted a podium finish, but not so badly as to over-tax the riders so early in the season for a win.

By the end of the week, Shamus coasted down the Promenade des Anglais to a third place finish in a disheveled group that lacked any desire to contest for better results.  The spirit of the peleton had been broken when the French team Bouygues Telecom sent Thomas Voeckler - a relatively young but seasoned pro who’d tasted fame a couple years earlier by sporting the yellow jersey during the opening week of the Tour - off the front of the group as they approached the Col d’Eze, on the outskirts of Nice.  Just minutes after he’d gone, a completely out-of-nowhere crash took down more than a dozen riders and stopped the entire peleton as riders were unable to get around the pile of bodies and equipment sprawled on the narrow avenue.  By the time the peleton got itself mounted and moving again the Frenchman had extended the three minutes they’d already granted him into a seven minute advantage, and there simply wasn’t enough distance left in the stage to reel the powerful rider back in.  A somber and bloodied group rolled across the finish line just behind a handful of sprinters who gave the crowds some delight as they shot by at over fifty miles per hour trying for second and third spots on the day. 

Back in Paris, Michael Steineger had arranged a First Class compartment on the high-speed TGV train to return Eve to Paris.  He thought a comfortable train ride would be more tolerable for her injuries than the stress of crowded airports and airplanes.  The extra time involved would be minimal, since the TGV sported a twenty five thousand horsepower engine and had set a top speed record for conventional rail trains of three hundred and fifty seven miles per hour on a run through the countryside between Paris and Strasbourg.  Eve appreciated the comfortable quarters and the ability to lay out her laptop and work papers.  She was still adjusting to doing everything one-handed, and often felt shooting pains when she bumped one of the many bruised and sensitive parts still healing from her stairway swan-dive.

When Eve had relayed the information to Micheal about Daniela going missing, he’d dispatched agents to locate Daniela, beginning with the team hotel in Paris, where she’d last been seen.  Inquiries had been made to team management under the guise of a landlord trying to reach her about a flooding problem in her unit.  Team management said that she’d left without notice and they’d not been able to reach her either.  They provided the agents with her contact information and personal email address and phone numbers at home and for her handy, and Interpol had already determined that she had continued to receive calls and emails, but had stopped any outgoing activity at the time she’d disappeared.  They contacted French police, and a missing person’s bulletin was issued.  A check of passport controls determined that she hadn’t left the EU zone, essentially narrowing down to twenty-seven the number of countries she could have traveled to without using her passport.  Of course, it was possible she hadn’t even left Paris, and that was Steineger’s hunch.

 After the awards ceremony, Shamus returned to his hotel room, shed his cycling gear and jumped in a hot shower.  Although he tolerated cold days as well as the next person, he thought it would be intolerable to keep going out on such miserable days but for long, hot showers afterward.  Once he’d cleaned off and warmed his core, he’d go down for a massage to remove the kinks from his aching muscles.  Very little about a massage was to be looked forward to.  Rene knew his craft very well, but he was a strong bloke and Shamus often found himself gasping for air as the man kneaded his muscles like a potter forming a clay vessel. 

As Shamus dressed he sorted his dirty uniform pieces to be handed off for cleaning, and stuffed the clean pile that had been delivered to his room into his duffle.  Then he gathered up his personal gear, being especially careful to remember his laptop, IPod, headphones, and battery chargers, and found various little pockets in his duffel in which to store them.  Grabbing one of the many zippers, he opened a pocket and found an unfamiliar envelope which, upon examination, had his name written on its front in the distinctively elegant handwriting that was Daniela’s. 

Shamus sat on the bed opposite the one his duffle lay on.  His body suddenly felt crushingly heavy.  He knew that he didn’t want to open the envelope and genuinely wished it didn’t exist.  But it did.  Sometimes it was preferable to not find the answers to your questions, he thought. 

Finally he tore it open.  After he’d read and re-read the letter, he called to let Rene he’d come down later – said he wanted a nap first, so please work on one of the other boys in his place.   Next he rang Eve. 

“You won’t believe it, but I found a note from Daniela and there’s quite a bit in it about what happened last year.”

“How did you get this note?” She asked.

“It was stuffed in a pocket in my duffel.  It might have been in there since last week for all I know.”

“You haven’t heard from her since then?”

“Not a word, and nobody else has seen her, either.  Not that she’d be traveling with us, but I heard Philip talking about it with Gabelli.  He said her landlord had called Trusseau looking for her about some problem with her flat, but Trusseau told them she left us without any word.  Have your people been able to find anything out?”

“Not yet.  We have sent missing persons to the state police and our agents have been contacting friends and family, and we’ve been monitoring her phone and email, but she is not communicating with anyone this way.  How and about the note, does it give any clue where she might have gone?”

“I’ll fax you a copy, but I don’t think it will be that helpful in finding her.  I’m more afraid that it sounds so final.  It definitely reads like she’s apologizing.  My heart tells me she’s also saying goodbye.” 

“I’m very sorry,” Shamus, Eve said, knowing well that his feelings for the girl lingered.  This didn’t bother her so much.  She would have been more concerned had those feelings faded so quickly. 

“So does the letter say who she thinks was responsible for your accident and Gerard’s death?”

“Generally yes, she points her finger at some ex-racers who make money delivering performance drugs to riders.  Apparently, Gerard knew many of these people, and he knew which ones were involved.  She said these men had warned Gerard that he was asking too many questions, and to mind his own business.  He had told them to quit doing this business or they’d face the authorities.  He’d offered to keep private some information about what they were doing, if they’d promise to stop.  She’d heard they’d said yes, they would, but in secret they planned to scare him off.  Daniela says in the note that one of them told her this directly, and she mentions a couple of men by name.”

“Please send me the fax right away and we will look into those names immediately.  They could be important to finding Daniela as well as getting to the bottom of Gerard’s murder.” 

Shamus went to the lobby and arranged use of the hotel’s fax machine, then stood by while the document was transmitted.  When it finished he grabbed the original and headed back to his room.

Eve called him back later that night, and Shamus was still awake when the phone rang.

“Did you get it okay?”  He asked.

“I got it just fine, Shamus.  That’s not what I was calling about though,” she responded.  “You’d better sit down for a moment, because I called to say that Daniela has been found.”

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